Even The Darkest Night Will End
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: Combeferre can never remember being seriously ill. However, when the stress of being a medic at Necker in the heat of the hottest Parisian summer he's known so far becomes too much; Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Joly are there to pull him out of the darkness. Please feel free to read and review! Much love and enjoy x
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Combeferre is never ill; not violently at least. But when the stress of being a junior medic at Necker becomes too much, Enjolras, Joly and Courfeyrac are there to pull their beloved guide up and out of the fever ridden darkness which plagues him. **_

_**Canon era because I haven't written anything canon in what feels like a long time and I want to get back into it now that exams are over and Barricade Day is fast approaching!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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Even The Darkest Night Will End

The fever comes unexpectedly and violently; crashing into the small, cramped apartment in a whirlwind of heat, noise and sweat soaked linen. Later, when he's coherent again, Combeferre will put it down to stress, anxiety and exhaustion from working far too many long hours at Necker with very little sleep during one of the worst cholera epidemics Paris has seen in recent years; but now he can think of little else but his own immediate discomfort.

It's too hot. Far too hot. Why is it so hot? The heat; the hard, sticky, summer heat that swoops down on Paris like a pack of vultures at the end of May and does not let the city out of its' iron grip until mid September is so different, so utterly alien to his system compared to the soft coolness that rolled down each April from the sloping Limousin hills of his childhood. In some dim part of his brain, some part that he doesn't understand, he wishes he was back there now; wishes with all his heart that he was home; home in the farmhouse with his parents and sisters; home in his garret bedroom with the sloping beams and Juliette poking her head around the door; her auburn plaits tumbling out of shape and framing her face in a blaze of ruddy gold; dark, vibrant eyes sparkling with silent mirth….

His whole body trembles with the conserved heat that has crashed into his system and try as he might, he can't seem to get rid of it. Can't seem to find some semblance of comfort amid the great swathes of sticky, sweaty linen that binds him to the bed as he desperately tries to find some sort of relief. Can't seem to think, to feel, to understand what's happening; even though he has to understand, he knows he has to and yet his brain seems to be filled with an unintelligible buzzing and try as he might nothing makes sense…

From somewhere in the depths of the darkness he hears a window bang itself open, the stifling, humid air billowing in from the street bringing his exhausted body little comfort. Dimly he can hear the lapping of the river against the pier, the once soft, almost melodic rush of the water combined with the rattling rush of late night fiacres crashing painfully against his now tender ears, the stench rising up from the water making him want to gag even though he knows he can't be sick now, knows that he's already lost too much fluid already through the sweat that seems to have drenched every inch of his body, knows that…

From the street below a cat yowls and a voice shouts something unintelligible that darts across the water; the voice joined by another rising shout that is thick with urgency floats up from the road below his window; a shout he thinks he vaguely recognizes; but where or whom it belongs to; he isn't sure. He can't think in this heat. He's tried but the pain rising up through each flush, the desperate, aching need for water; even though he knows that he will most probably throw up if he drinks that seems to torture his barren tongue makes any idea of rational thought impossible. If only he could get out of this dratted heat then maybe, maybe he could do something about it but as he tentatively tries to move under the covers; his legs begin to feel like jelly and it is so damn hot as a sweaty hand gropes blindly in the darkness for the cold security of his spectacles, the thick, useless fingers slipping, sliding, grasping on nothing but air in their futile quest…

'Combeferre? Combeferre!' The sensation of hands on his face; the frantic fingers pressing almost painfully into flushed cheeks brings him slowly back into semi-consciousness; the darkness that has plagued his brain for so long slowly ebbing away from his vision enough for him to make out vague, hazy shapes looming out of the gloom; but little else.

Faintly, he can feel the cold hard roughness of wood underneath him; although why and how he got to be on the floor is anyone's guess as he struggles to focus on the voice as his body is lifted gently into the speakers' lap. ''Ferre… Combeferre … Henri, it's me…. It's Joly… Can you open your eyes for me Mon Ami?'

The voice is low; low and soft and yet tight with urgency as he struggles to do as he's bid; feeling something blissfully cold being placed across his forehead in the waiting minutes. Every breath he takes is an effort; the expansion and contraction of his lungs sending short, sharp bursts of pain across his chest as Joly's fingers catch themselves within his hair, the dexterous digits radiating with a sense of forced, pained calmness that makes the older medical student's heart ache. He knows that he shouldn't be doing this to Joly. He shouldn't be making a burden out of himself to Joly, to Courfeyrac, to Enjolras, to any of them and yet he is so tired and so thirsty and so, so unbearably hot as thick, tired fingers scrabble suddenly for a better grip on Joly's jacket lapels…

The sound of a door slamming itself open onto a blast of stagnant, summer air makes him curl closer into the chest supporting him; his ears ringing, eyes burning with unshed shards of scalding silver, his whole body throbbing as something blissfully, frigidly metallic is pressed against his barren lips and a cool hand reaches for his forehead.

'How… How long…?' The voice of the newcomer is thick with urgency; each syllable tight with sudden, choked up tears as Combeferre leans into the touch gladly; grateful to feel the hard steadiness of known callouses rising through his sweaty cheek once more.

'I… I don't know… I missed him earlier and came up to check…' Joly's voice tails away into a badly caught sob as the new body; whom Combeferre in his exhausted, feverish state thinks belongs to Enjolras; although he can't be sure; presses itself tightly against his own; the steady rhythms of his beloved brothers' heartbeat feeling more reassuring than the sound of any spoken diagnosis.

Dimly he feels Enjolras fingers, steady; the marble digits he knows so well shivering slightly with anxiety curl around his own and squeeze for a moment, a silent promise rippling through the touch. '_I'm here. I'm here and Joly's here. Courfeyrac's hopefully on his way home by now too. It's all right. It's going to be all right Mon Cher…. I… I promise.' _

'Shouldn't… Shouldn't we get him out of these things?' He feels Enjolras pluck uncertainly at his nightshirt; the clammy linen feeling like an oppressive second skin as it clings to him and feels his lungs let out a pain filled breath that feels more like a moan than anything else and he hates himself for it.

Hates himself because he doesn't like being dependant on others; doesn't like it because ever since he was a child; he has always been the strong one. Whether it stems from being the eldest, or being the only boy in a family of three girls, he doesn't know; but this feeling of utter, childlike helplessness is utterly alien to him and he hates every single second of it.

'Will you let us do that Mon Ami?', Joly's voice is quiet through the silence; the weight of Enjolras' arms holding him upright as Combeferre feels himself nod slowly his brain feeling stupid with the fever and the heat as sudden, unknown questions desperately trying to form themselves at the back of his throat; the words dancing and dying against his barren, lolling tongue as he buries his head further into the darkness of Enjolras' chest.

'Try and stay awake Cher', Enjolras murmurs into his hair; his voice breaking for the briefest of moments as capable hands slowly fumble with the sweaty linen, thick fingers finally negotiating the myriad of buttons and cords and slowly easing the shirt away from burning shoulders. The sudden change in temperature comes as a shock as without warning the icy liquid slowly begins to work its' way around his chest and upper body; a sudden, inescapable, frozen fire seeping without mercy into every inch of his shattered self. In desperation he tries to evade the rough, cold wetness; a small, protesting whimper forcing itself through his lips. Joly, however, is determined; carefully working his way through every pore, every crevice of their beloved guide's fever flushed body until he is sure that there is no decent place that has been left untouched. A steady stream of unintelligible apologies flow from the medic's lips as he works; apologies mingled with the steady rise and fall of Enjolras' chest; of the weight of his chief's nose in his hair; the tight ball of agony in his chest, the faint flow of continuous, anxious kisses falling from lips tight with righteous worry.

Finally, after what feels like decades of icy agony; the cloths' journey begins to slow and the pain in the guide's chest begins to ease. Enjolras' hands are still holding him, Joly's free fingers are still caught within hair stiff with sweat, but he feels like he can breathe again as the weight supporting his body shifts slightly and a warm, soft something he vaguely recognizes as his spare nightshirt is gently eased over his head with a soft, lingering trail of thankful, whispered bisous as he reaches to squeeze back at the wavering, marble digits in a silent gesture of unadulterated thanks.

They remain there curled up in a tangled mess of limbs and bodies until the early hours of the morning when Courfeyrac finally makes it home; his darkly handsome face alive with worry as he crashes into the apartment followed by a bleary eyed Bossuet close on his heels; the pair barely missing upsetting the hat stand in the hallway in their haste to locate their dearest friends.

Combeferre barely moves when a hand is gently laid on his shoulder to make him wake. Instead, he reaches up a hand to squeeze Courfeyrac's in a silent act of reassurance; his fingers still trembling slightly with fever before Enjolras pulls him back down into their nest of limbs and blankets; the chief silently vowing in his heart to never, ever let his best beloved guide go through a fever like that alone again.

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_**Please feel free to read and review! This is either going to be a two or three shot- I'm not committing myself to anything longer than that yet, but we shall see! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_**_  
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_**Much love and enjoy x**_


	2. Waking Up

_**A/N: The next instalment of this little canon thing is here! Thank you to Sarahbob and Chanty420 for their lovely reviews and to everyone who decided to follow and favourite this story- you have no idea how much your support means to me!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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Waking Up

Combeferre sleeps for what feels like an eternity. It's the sleep of a fever patient he knows that much; a deep, apparently restful sleep that for the patient is pinpricked by moments of excruciating agony as his system desperately tries to ward off any and all signs of infection, drenching his whole body in sticky, icy sweat that makes him shiver at the slightest touch.

His whole body feels weak; pitifully weak and fragile as he curls up against the chill of the cloth that is continuously pressed against his frame in order to cool the heat; feebly trying to bat his friends' fretful touches away with little success.

Sometimes he manages to surface back into consciousness long enough to hear the soft hum of conversation floating on above him, feel the steadying, comforting weight of fingers clutched within his palm, the pressure of a nose pressed into his hair; before feeling content enough to lose himself deep within the darkness of Morpheus' spell; but those times are as fleeting as the lives of the butterflies and just as precious as the darkness nearly always manages to claim him back its' realm of senseless nothingness.

Dimly, in these hazy moments of semi-consciousness, he knows that he really shouldn't be angry with his friends; knows that they are trying to do their best for him given the circumstances; but he wishes they wouldn't worry. _'It's just a summer fever. It's nothing,' _he tries to tell them every time he feels Joly reach for his forehead; but the words don't come. Instead they dance and die on a tongue thick and heavy with heat and fall back, barren and wasted into the darkness of oblivion and there is nothing he can do about it.

Sometimes the voices get joined by others or distorted by the slam of a door, the whistle of the humid, stagnant air rising up from the river, a bark of booming laughter which could either belong to Bahorel, Bossuet or Grantaire; he isn't sure which, but the hand is always there; the thick, tremulous pressure of the digits never leaving his own even for a moment as the word and its' conversations continue to work themselves around him.

'… Are you sure it's not contagious? I… I mean… It's not… It's not…' The rest of the sentence is lost in a well placed cough, but even in his fever muddled state Combeferre has picked up enough to know exactly what fears his landlord; a brusque, balding man in his late fifties with a face often stained red by drink is worried about. That his tenant has contracted the disease that he has been trying to battle against for what feels like a lifetime up at the Necker Infirmary and is spreading through the streets of their beloved Paris like wildfire; plunging its' invisible, inpregnatable fingers into every corner of every street, sweeping up the unsuspecting innocents in a haze of gasping, choking coughs ready to be thrown into the care of the Grim Reaper himself.

'It's not contagious and it's definitely not cholera. Enjolras has been with him night and day and the rest of us would have been showing symptoms by now if it were. Most likely it's stress and overwork made worse by the heat and bad water but…'

'How long is he going to be down here for Monsieur? You know that I hold certain sympathies with your beliefs but I have a reputation and a family to think of and if…If the authorities…'

He thinks he recognizes the voice of his landlord but loses the rest of the sentence as a thin, dexterous finger sweeps back a stray lock of hair out of his eyes and he feels himself being eased slowly up into the sitters' lap; a soft stream of light, tender bisous landing gently in his hair as he leans back into the touch. He feels his lips begin to form questions, words that to his muddled mind don't make sense but the nose is back in his hair again and the soft stream of gentle, nonsense words and epithets begins again.

Enjolras.

It's Enjolras' chest he's pressed up against, Enjolras' arms all but holding him upright as he slowly surfaces back into consciousness, all too aware of the pain in his chest that refuses to even think about abating. It's Enjolras' fingers which are slowly tracing comforting circles between his shoulder blades in an attempt to ease the sudden bout of unexpected coughing that crashes through him; gripping his lungs into an iron headlock until he has to fight to breathe; the pain in his chest sending sudden, unwanted shards of salty silver pricking painfully in the corners of his retinas.

As if sensing his pain, Enjolras slowly loosens his grip and yet again Combeferre feels the icy metallic coldness of a water glass being pressed against his lips. He sips greedily, relishing in the icy coolness slipping down his throat and yet all too soon the cup is being slowly moved away and replaced with another gentle, tender kiss swooping down his cheek; slowly asking him to wake fully as he senses the weight of another hand gently reaching across the bedspread to take his own.

Their hands stay there for a moment; the fingers that he thinks either belong to Joly or Courfeyrac; softly squeezing his own as he slowly pulls himself back into consciousness. It's an exhausting effort, one that makes his head spin as he finally is able to lean gratefully into Enjolras' chest; blind brown eyes blinking stupidly in the noontime light streaming through the window. The room is little more than flimsy shadows at first before his eyes can find the ability to focus again.

Someone has removed his spectacles. Someone has removed his spectacles and so the world is little more than a haze of fuzzy grey shapes looming out of an unknown, sun splashed backdrop. _Where are they? Why are they not in his and Enjolras' own apartment?_

'Good to have you back Mon Ami,' a voice somewhere to his left says quietly, a soft smile tugging at the end of each whispered word that still does not betray the exhaustion radiating from the speaker as he feels the cool, cold weight of a soaked cloth being laid across his forehead. His head aches. His whole body aches, a constant dull throb that seems to stem from his very bones, rising dully through the pit of his stomach as he shifts against Enjolras' grip; the question he has been longing to ask ever since he returned to the land of the living dancing perilously on his lips.

'How long?'

'Two days, close on three nights. We were worried for you Cher', Enjolras murmurs gently into his hair; azure orbs flicking up to meet Joly who, to Combeferre's blind brown orbs; is little more than a hazy shape of a man drifting in and out of focus.

'The worst passed this morning', Joly tells him quietly, the younger medic sinking onto the mattress with a breath of relief and reaching to take Combeferre's hands in his; a silent laugh that is marred with seriousness crinkling on his lips as he does so. 'Your landlord was worried for you when you thought it would be nice weather to take a dip in the Seine, so we brought you down here last night.'

Combeferre feels his cheeks heat up a little at that; the betraying blush burning bright against the still present flush of the fever and makes Joly chuckle as he squeezes his hand still tighter; reaching up to brush back a stray lock of hair out of his eyes; a soft, sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

The guide has to suck in a reproach as he takes in the exhaustion tugging at every inch of Joly's features; the grey weariness tugging down at the corners of his lower lids, the pinched worry lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes as the medic scans his face for a brief moment; their eyes locking for a single second as Combeferre finds the strength to raise a sceptical eyebrow at his fellow medic.

'_Tell me you actually got some sleep Joly. Please? I don't want you to run yourself ragged just for me… I'm… I'm not worth it…' _

Joly smiles at the sense of hazy concern that must be dancing through the guide's eyes; a smile that does little to hide the sudden stream of salty silver pricking at the corners of his eyelids and reaches over to sweep a whispered kiss against his guide's still flushed cheek as Enjolras nuzzles his nose deep within the shock of sweaty chocolate curls. _'Of course you're worth it Mon Cher. You're worth every minute of this and I'm not going to take 'no' for an answer. We'll get you better, I promise.' _

The sound of a door being slid softly shut combined with the swish of linen skirts and a murmur of voices that he thinks belongs to Courfeyrac and the landlord's wife breaks the silence. Courfeyrac's usual jovial tones are tight with concern as he hears the scrape of a chair being pulled across the floorboards and the weight of another calloused hand lightly taking his own; the familiar weight of known skin softly roving over his own trembling digits; silently squeezing some semblance of comfort into his touch.

'You need to eat 'Ferre,' the centre says after a moment of silence. 'I know… I know you're tired but this gracious lady', he gestures at the landlord's wife who has been watching this display of tender intimacy with a soft smile that still does not betray the worry tugging at her wide, grey eyes who smiles and nods, her tongue clucking in a gesture of sympathy which Combeferre is sure he does not deserve before slipping away; 'has brought up some broth for you to try. Could you do that for us Mon Ami?'

There's a sense of concern, a sense of genuine, heart breaking concern in his voice as Enjolras reaches over to take his hand and squeeze it gently, silently asking him to comply with their wishes and Combeferre nods slowly, silently; knowing that if he tries to speak, tries to articulate the tumult of thoughts tumbling through his brain into coherent words, he will most likely go to pieces. Instead, he nods quietly and allows Enjolras to help him into a more comfortable sitting position as Courfeyrac settles himself on the side of the bed; the mattress groaning audibly at yet another weight and slides the tray onto his guide's knees. Combeferre eats slowly; the spoon shivering slightly through fingers still thick with the remains of fever, his eyes threatening to slip shut all the while as Enjolras keeps a tight hold on his other hand; azure orbs which are still wide with concern darting every so often to Joly who nods silently; quietly asking him to give Combeferre the space he needs and the guide's heart swells with gratitude for it.

Joly hovers on the other side of the bed; his dark eyes which are flecked with a lighter gold than Courfeyrac's wide with tender, emotive concern as he watches his beloved guides' every move, hands itching, Combeferre knows, to make a grab at the spoon should it slip from his grip or catch the bowl if it falls; his whole body ready, expectant, waiting to do something, anything to help.

He manages to get through about half the bowl before his stomach lurches and he has to shake his head at the rest of it; feeling the age old sensation of nausea which he thought he had forgotten rising with painful speed up his throat. On his side of the bed Enjolras notices this and stiffens, his hand moving up to grip the guide's shoulder, eyes flicking in concern to Joly, who nods.

'It's enough. Truly. You haven't eaten much for the past three days so it's bound to feel strange.' Combeferre nods in silent understanding; wishing that the knots in his stomach would abate, forcing his fellow a medic a small, tight smile because he's sure that if he even thinks about talking, he will throw up and that is more than his body can cope with at the present moment.

Courfeyrac is the one who notices the discomfort etched across his face and throws a concerned look at Joly who has moved across the bed to gather up the tray.

'Stomach hurts?' The younger medic asks quietly and Combeferre nods; managing to swallow down the lump that has been blocking his throat for far too long, but still unable to speak for fear of vomiting.

Joly nods; dark eyes brimming with concern as he reaches over to grip the hand still held fast in Enjolras' marble hold; motioning for Courfeyrac to bring over an empty bowl sitting on the small dressing table that Combeferre has not noticed until now. The fine Delft porcelain with its' swirling frieze of doves and climbing vines, Greek temples and barefoot dancing nymphs and shepherds feels icy to his touch, his fingers shivering and slipping with sweat as finally his stomach lets go and he is allowed to vomit; his whole body trembling with the contractions and releases of his traitorous stomach.

'It will get better soon Mon Cher', Joly murmurs; sinking back onto the mattress and lying a hand on the guide's shoulder; sharing a silent, meaningful look with Enjolras as he does so.

'Will it?' Combeferre mutters dryly, inwardly cursing his stomach again as it contracts yet again, the words thick with sleep and vomit as he reaches up a shaking hand to wipe away the residue with the back of his sleeve and is met with the wet corner of a handkerchief softly wiping away the rest of the grime.

'It will', Enjolras echoes from his perch at his back. 'It's got to.' He pauses there and buries his nose into the pit of skin falling from the guide's neck onto his collarbone, so that his next words sound strangely muffled. 'And… And even if it doesn't Mon Ami, we will be with you. All of us. You don't have to go through this alone Combeferre. I promise.' Combeferre feels his lips quirk upwards a little at that; remembering how many times he has repeated those exact words to Enjolras when times seemed dark and their path to leading their beloved Patria out of the dark Bourgeious tyranny and into their promised land of peaceful freedom seemed impossibly dark and full of terrors.

From his perch, Courfeyrac nods in silent approval and reaches over to squeeze the guide's shoulder as Combeferre leans back into the warmth of Enjolras' chest and for the first time since waking up that morning; is able to feel complete.

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_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Questions, comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!**_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


	3. Dark Moments

_**A/N: Another chapter of this little, emotional canon thing is here! Contrary to my original plan I have decided to make this into a four-shot, so this is not the end- yet. Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this so far- you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love and thank each and every one of you for your support!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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Dark Moments

It's on the third day when Combeferre can no longer keep fluids down that Joly calls for a doctor. Deep down in his heart of hearts, he knows that this should have been done earlier; much earlier, but in his ignorance had not considered just how bad the fever would really be. _'It's just a summer fever',_ he had heard the guide muttering when the worst of the delirium had passed the first time round; curling up and away from the ice-cold cloth which was pressed continuously to his skin in an attempt to cool the heat that was slowly conquering his entire body. _'It's nothing'. _

'I won't be long', he tells the room at large as he grabs his cane and dons his hat; dark eyes pooling with compassionate concern as they sweep over the bed and land on the guide's sleeping form curled up in a foetal position against the thin linen sheets.

Beside the bed, his chair pulled up as close as he dares; Enjolras nods; barely looking at the medic; his azure eyes fixed on the taut, flushed face before him. Joly's heart almost breaks at the sight as he takes in the clasped hands resting on the bedspread, the guide's feverish fingers clenched tightly within those of his chief's, the way Enjolras holds a breath with every ragged inhalation of Combeferre's lungs and forces it out with every exhale, the unshed shards of salty silver clinging to his fellow doctor's eyelashes. His eyes land on the porcelain bowl that is filled with vomit resting between Enjolras' knees; watching it reflect the shards of harsh midday sun which filters through the window, the throw of the light making the figurines seem alive as they continue to tramp out the steps to their stationary blue painted dance.

'Go Joly', comes Courfeyrac's voice from the window; the words sounding quietly determined and yet tight with exhausted anxiety as the centre's gaze flicks to the sleeping figure on the bed and back again. Courfeyrac, out of the three of them, looks the worst for wear; Joly thinks; or maybe it's because the centre is usually so impeccably dressed with not a wisp of clothing out of place, does the exhausted, bedraggled figure before him look so strange.

From the bed Combeferre gives a low, whimpering moan is response, silent streaks of salty silver leaking from his eyes; the hand not clutched within Enjolras' marble grasp scrabbling desperately at the coarse, hard mattress which has been stripped of its' sheets in a desperate attempt to keep any source of heat away from the epicentre of the fever.

Joly can't bear it. He doesn't know what demons are plaguing his friend, tells himself over and over again that he doesn't really want to know as he hurries down the back stairs, his shoes sparking up silent dust fountains as he goes; and the vision of Combeferre; strong, dependable Combeferre; the rock of the society, of their upcoming revolution, the pillar of wisdom and revolutionary values look so desperately broken, so fragile is more than his heart can cope with.

The streets of St Michel are strangely quiet as the tall, dark, young man with the silver topped cane, crumpled dark blue velvet waistcoat and a white shirt makes his way up to the Necker Infirmary. The thick, summer air itself seems to hum with the stink of the river; the heat rising up from the water in spiralling waves of evaporated moisture that makes him plunge a hand into his coat pocket and dig out a handkerchief in a desperate attempt to quell the stench.

A few ragged gamins with pale, pinched faces and eyes huge with hunger; their claw like hands clogged with clay from scrabbling in the dirt for trinkets to sell follow him for a while; their bare feet silencing their steps as they clamour for coins he does not have, for pity he cannot give as they merge into one rolling pack of scrap like humanity behind him. Joly doesn't have the heart to send them away but his mind is elsewhere; still sat in the second floor drawing room beside the bed and the boy, the man, his fellow medic's body; wishing, hoping, praying for something to change, for the fever to break, for his dearest companion, their best beloved guide to be back with them once again, his body whole and healthy in the summer heat.

He passes the Musain without comment, barely hearing Bahorel's good-natured boom of pleasure echoing from the upstairs room or the new sheath of mortality bills slapped and screaming in cold black ink against the wall. 'Joly! Hey Joly! Come and join me for a drink!'

_I would if I could Bahorel, I really would but I… _

Instead he presses his hat further onto his head and continues walking, trying not to think, trying to stop his brain from constantly returning to the drawing room and the fever flushed body of the tall, thin, bespectacled boy; a boy, a student, a man whom he was so, so lucky to call one of his closest friends fighting for his life amid a tangle of sweat soaked linen.

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It's cold. So very, very cold. Too cold. The chill seems to consume him, to numb him, softly pulling his aching body further and further into its' icy caress as he struggles to stay conscious. In desperation he tries to find something to focus on; something, anything that will distract him from the unexplained Arctic chill that seems to have seeped into his very core and refuses to let him go.

The weight of a hand clutched in his. A cold hand that shakes slightly as it continues to clutch at his feverish fingers, silently willing him to stay with them, willing him to stay present. 'We need you 'Ferre. I…I need you … Hold on…. Please. Please just hold on… Joly's gone for a doctor… He'll be back soon. It'll be all right, I promise.' The sense of a forced, tear stained smile sparking behind those words as he continues to cling to the voice; willing for it to banish the pain, to evaporate the heat, the knots in the pit in his stomach, the vilely acidic stench of bile caught in his throat.

Sudden, unwanted tears burning though his cheeks; scalding shards of salty silver pooling through his eyes, catching on his lashes that he does not have the strength to brush away. He feels the hand that had been holding his; the fine, marble hands with dexterous digits now shivering with supressed emotion reaching up to brush them away as he struggles to exhale; his stomach lurching horribly as he does so.

_Where did the voice go?_ He needs that voice; needs it like a drowning man needs a scrap of driftwood to keep him afloat amid a storm tossed sea as the now familiar sensation of the water glass is pressed against his lips and a hand cups itself against the back of his head to encourage him to drink. The water slips down his throat slowly as the glass is slowly removed and replaced by a sweeping, salty kiss and the sensation of shivering fingers lacing themselves tightly within his own.

'Don't give up on us 'Ferre, please? We need you._ I_ need you. Please don't go Mon Ami.' He tries to squeeze back; really tries, but the darkness that has been tugging at the corners of his brain for far too long is too enticing and he is tired of having to fight it; so very, very tired of having to ignore it…

'Stay with me Combeferre… Please… I… I need you... We need you… Joly… Joly's going to be back soon… Just hold on… It's going to be all right… Please don't leave us…' A trembling finger reaches up to trace his cheek as he struggles for air; his throat blocked by mucus as he gasps and chokes for the preciously sweet tang of oxygen; every breath feeling like a knife to his chest that is being twisted through his lungs with steadily decreasing speed as without warning his stomach lurches and all he can see is a flash of blinding light, light that is mixed with a desperate, pleading voice begging him to do something, he isn't sure what, in words he cannot understand. But still the words continue to flow and from somewhere he hears a door slam shut combined with the sound of an unknown voice caught with urgency cutting through the abyss of never ending pain…

'My God...' He loses the rest of the sentence in yet another coughing fit; his body lurching and bucking against the bed as the hands that he thinks belong to Enjolras slowly ease him back up into a sitting position; the weight of his best friends' nose nestled within his hair slowly bringing him back into a semblance of reality as he feels the weight of Joly's hands lightly taking his own and squeezing in a silent act of reassurance.

'Henri, it's me. It's Michel. I've brought the doctor,' Joly's voice falters for a moment as Combeferre struggles to open his eyes; struggles to focus, struggles to be present as the world slowly returns in a film of hazy greyness. Sick and stupid from the pain he finds himself nodding slowly in assent, desperately trying to focus on the exhausted pallor of Joly's face face as it swims in and out of focus, focus on the weight of Enjolras' arms holding him upright, on anything and everything but the throbbing ache that seems to have invaded every square inch of his body. From the corner of the room he thinks he can hear the sound of running water, the glint of the mid morning sun dancing off the jug which makes the blue painted frieze seem to come alive; the nymphs twirling in a dizzying array of ink across their porcelain background, the reedy, raspy notes of the double pipes sounding far too loud to his tender ears as a shot of silver flashes across his vision…

Something is in his mouth now. A hard, wet something that stinks of salty saliva and something else, something bitter that he can't quite place as unknown hands clamp his jaws down onto whatever it is and hold them there. He coughs and almost chokes; desperately trying to spit whatever it is out, but the grip on his mouth is too strong, the fingers working themselves into his bulging cheeks, a steady stream of unintelligible sounds making no sense whatsoever.

'It's all right Combeferre. It's going to be all right.' _Was that Enjolras? And how could it be all right? How could it possibly be all right? Oh Enjolras… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry Mon Petit…_

Desperately he tries to rise towards the voice but the hands holding him simply force his body back as another searing pain slices through his wrist as the voice returns. 'The doctor's trying bloodletting to lower the fever…' Something must be showing in his face at that point as the voice pauses before continuing, 'I know… I know you don't like it and I know it hurts but…' The words are lost as another shot of sudden, excruciating agony crashes through his arm and he barely has time to stifle the sudden, desperate scream as it falls against the wedge of leather blocking his mouth, his eyes burning with unshed tears as he desperately tries to twist away from the lancet digging deeper and deeper into the tender flesh of his wrist. _Just let it end_, he finds himself thinking at that moment, the words boring themselves in a repetitive, broken mantra deep within his brain; clinging to the thought as tightly as he clings to the fingers clenched in his shaking palm. _Please. Please let it be over. Let it end. Please. Please. _He has read countless essays on the subject of bloodletting, has argued with many professors and surgeons at Necker about the pros and cons of the technique, listened to so many lectures and yet never, ever in his wildest dreams thought that it could be him on the table; sweating sick and feverishly hot as he waited for the icy bite of the knife to stop, willing with all his heart for the pain to be over soon.

'It'll all be over soon Mon Ami, I… I promise,' the disjointed, desperate voice that lurks somewhere beyond the oblivion concedes; each word choked with badly suppressed emotion as the fingers in his palm continue to squeeze his own; silently willing him to stay with them; even though every inch of him is begging him to let go, to end it on his own terms even though deep down, he knows he can't. Knows he has to hold on, to keep living, keep breathing, keep fighting until he can finally be allowed out of this unknown hell of his own making…

'Just hold on Combeferre. Please. The doctor…. You're doing so well… The doctor's almost finished… It's almost over Cher.' Another voice. Another voice floating through the bloody darkness that is slashed with serrated strips of sun soaked light; a voice that he clings to as a final searing burst of pain sears itself against his wrist; a voice that he vaguely recognizes as the grip in his palm tightens and his fingers continue to fight; wanting nothing more than for this all to be over…

At some point during the proceedings he must have lost consciousness because the next thing he is truly aware of is the weight of a head buried in his chest and the sudden, sickening sensation of vertigo making him want to vomit as his body is pressed further and further into a fierce, unknown embrace. He welcomes it. Welcomes the warmth and security of the arms which he think belong to Enjolras encircling him as a forehead is pressed against his own and trembling fingers card themselves in desperation through his hair as he exhales the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. His whole body aches; a distant, throbbing ache that rises from the very core of his being, building up somewhere on his left wrist in a crescendo of dull agony as he allows himself to melt into the warmth and security of the embrace; never wanting to let his oldest, closest friend go.

'Never… Never do that again 'Ferre…' Enjolras' voice is little more than a choked, desperate whisper landing somewhere in his hair as they continue to cling to one another, never wanting to let the other go, even for an instant. Combeferre wishes he could say something to reassure Enjolras that he won't; say something that could tell his friend that he would never, ever leave them willingly; but the words don't come. Instead, he allows himself to be lost within the warmth and security of Enjolras' embrace, feeling the weights of two more heads and many other pairs of hands resting themselves against his frame.

'You… You did well Mon Ami. We… We thought we'd lost you at one point', comes a voice which he thinks belongs to Joly as he finally finds the strength to lift his head and think about opening his eyes. The medic's face is pale; his eyes tight and smudged with red swims as they swim disjointedly in front of the guide's blind brown orbs, his voice thick with exhaustion and Combeferre's heart aches for him. '_Oh Joly… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I didn't mean for this to happen… Any of it… I thought… I didn't…. I didn't know… Can you forgive me Mon Ami?'_

On Joly's other side Combeferre can just make out Courfeyrac's hazy outline; hazel eyes swimming with silent, unabashed tears and tries to force a smile to the centre as without warning the mattress groans and he finds himself being smothered into a sudden, multi-limbed embrace. Weakly he tries to fend them off, but the hands are too strong and the hug too inviting as Enjolras pulls him closer and with a broken, tear stained sigh he finally allows himself to be lost within the warmth and love of their friendship.

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_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! I'm going to be away for the whole of next week on a cooking course (and missing Barricade Day again- damn) so may not be able to reply to reviews but I'll try! In the mean time, comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms on my knowledge of 19th century surgical practices will be most welcome!**_**_  
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_**Much love and enjoy x**_


	4. The Barricades

_**A/N: The final chapter/ a very, very late contribution to Barricade Day 2014 is here! (I was away all this week- up until Saturday on a cooking course- can you forgive me?) Thank you to everyone who has decided to read, review, follow and favourite this story- you have no idea how much it means to me and I love and thank you with all my heart!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Victor Hugo's epic masterpiece into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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The Barricades

The pressure of the newest bandage secured around the wound in his arm feels like a dead weight as Combeferre shrugs on his jacket and reaches for the cane resting beside the bed. Outside the window, the city is bathed in a bath of soft, hazy, midmorning light; shards of sunlight spilling onto the freshly changed coverlet that now covers the bed and dancing off the walls of the room which has been his home for so long now.

'Are you sure about this Mon Ami?' Enjolras' voice is quiet with concern as he hands over the cane that Joly insists Combeferre uses until he is fully confident with being in the vertical again and his chief's eyes are sparkling with silent anxiety; concern pooling through each finely worked strand of azure brilliance as Combeferre nods for what feels like the umpteenth time.

Deep down he knows why Enjolras is worried as out of the corner of his eye he watches the chief fiddle with his pocket watch; the dexterous digits worrying the clasp of the lid before thinking better of it and shoving the instrument back into his pocket. Feeling like he should do something to reassure his friend, Combeferre silently reaches up to grip Enjolras' hand in his; relishing in the warm weight of the marble skin beneath his own, in the bony rises of the chief's knuckles resting just beneath his own, trying to squeeze some sort of semblance into the marble skin.

'Of course', he says at last, the words quiet in the dusky mid morning light. 'I am quite up to a short meeting and it would be good to see our friends again now that…' He pauses, the words catching suddenly in his throat and Enjolras nods in silent, sympathetic understanding but remains quiet and for that Combeferre is grateful. He knows how much Enjolras has worried over him of late, has seen the furtive glances the chief has thrown in his direction ever since the worst of the fever broke less than a week ago.

'Joly will fuss worse than I do when he sees you,' Enjolras concedes, eyes still filled with concern juxtaposing the small smile quirking at the corners of his lips. The sight of that smile makes the corners of Combeferre's heart lift slightly in his chest and he can do nothing else but return it, grateful that despite everything that has happened over the past few days, Enjolras can still find something to be cheerful about. The medic had reluctantly gone home when Bossuet and a disgruntled Grantaire had turned up at the door of the apartment with a message from Muschietta that he was in dire need of a hot bath, good food and a decent sleep that was not punctuated by the desire to check on his patient. Combeferre nods, remembering with a pang of pain, the look of exhausted anxiety that had carved itself through the younger medic's fine, dark features as Joly's face swam in and out of focus at the height of the fever.

'Let him fuss', Combeferre replies as the sudden silence between them is shattered by the sound of footsteps on the stairs and the slam of the front door as Courfeyrac enters; hatless, breathless and bright eyed with what Combeferre supposes, is news of the steadily unravelling situation in Paris. For days now a steady current of unrest has been sweeping its' silent fingers through the city, pulling every citizen; man, woman and child both Bourgeious and gamin alike into its' clutching embrace. Enjolras' eyes grow suddenly cold with concern as he waits for Courfeyrac to catch his breath.

'General Lamarque … Enjolras… 'Ferre… He… He's… The centre breathes as he pulls himself upright and Combeferre feels a chill cut through him that has nothing to do with the remnants of the fever. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Enjolras' whole body stiffen with anticipation, the age-old muscle tightening in his jaw as he fights not to interrupt the centre.

'The cholera's returned. There's talk he may not last the week', he pauses; the hazel eyes flecked with sparks of gold wide with worry as they hold Enjolras' gaze; a stream of silent, desperate questions that need to be answered before it is too late pooling from every crevice of the centre's body. Combeferre feels his heart sink like a stone falling faster and faster through the rush and pull of a river; the small bubble of euphoria that had entered his chest popping faster than a needle pricking skin to draw blood as he dares to steal a glance at Enjolras. The chief's mouth is a tight, hard line; his face an impeccable mask of icy composure, even though Combeferre knows as well as Courfeyrac does that the composure is merely a façade, that beneath the ice, Enjolras' brain will be running riot, calculations, facts and figures, mental maps of Paris and the designated points for their upcoming insurrection which they have planned for and dreamed of for so long finally flying in perfect formation into place.

A sudden silence laps between them. A silence so thick it could be cut as Courfeyrac's gaze flicks from face to face, desperate for answers, desperate for action, his whole body ready and waiting to at last ignite these embers of discontent into something larger, something grander, something on the scale of a raging inferno of blazingly passionate change that they have dreamt of for so long.

'We… We need to alert the others. Tell them to meet at the Musain in ten minutes. We don't have much time,' Enjolras says at last, his voice cracking slightly with an emotion that is soon overcome by the steely bite of determination, his blazing blue orbs never leaving the centre's face. Courfeyrac nods and makes to leave; relief flooding through his veins at the thought of some form of action, lingering for a moment to grasp both of their hands in a silent moment of solidarity. Combeferre returns the touch, gently pressing Courfeyrac's knuckles and trying to give the centre what he hopes is a reassuring smile before he darts away; leaving them, once again, alone. _ 'Godspeed Mon Ami.' _

After they hear the door that lead onto the street slam shut, Enjolras seems to sag under the weight of the sudden silence; the passionate inferno which had blazed into life behind his eyes dampening for just a moment as he stares at the door. 'It's really happening…' Combeferre hears him murmur after a moment's hush. His exhale is a sharp whistle as the guide shifts slightly to lean on the table for support; forcefully trying to shove back the sudden sense of vertigo induced nausea that is threatening to overwhelm him. Dimly he thinks he can hear Joly's voice ringing distantly through his brain, each word calm, measured and in absolutely perfect control as he tries to breathe. '_In through your nose and out through your mouth. That's it. Hold your inhalations for ten and then your exhalations for ten. That's it.' _

'Combeferre? 'Ferre, are you all right?' The weight of a hand suddenly clutching at his shoulder takes him by surprise as he feels himself blinking into Enjolras' gaze, each finely worked strand of azure coloured brilliance suddenly dark with concern.

'I… I'm fine', he manages to say after a moment, trying desperately to dispel the sudden, tightening knot of dread that is slowly forming in the pit of his stomach. Enjolras, however, is not convinced as with a forceful push he manages to get Combeferre back into a sitting position on the bed and slowly takes the guide's hands in his; the warm pressure of known skin flooding thankfully through every crevice of the older man's body.

'Oh Mon Ami', Enjolras murmurs after a while, gently rubbing the too taut skin beneath his own as Combeferre feels his eyes slip shut and tries to focus on breathing, on thinking, on banishing the sensation of sudden, desperate panic that is threatening to overpower him completely.

'It'll be all right', Enjolras continues gently after a moments' quiet; one hand reaching up to cup the guide's cheek, gently tracing the lines and bends of the high, fine cheekbone he finds there. 'Truly my friend. This is not '30. We have grown up since our escapades then, I hope. We have each other now.' But even as he says it, even as Combeferre feels the passion building up behind each word, he still can't quite believe it. He wants to, really wants to, but the thought that this might all end in disaster, in bloodshed and in the slaughter of so many who were capable of leading their beloved Patria towards freedom is too much for him to cope with. Without warning, he feels sudden, unwanted pricks of salty silver stabbing at the corners of his eyes and reaches up to swipe them away; cursing the remnants of the fever for allowing his emotions to become so volatile.

Seeing this, Enjolras simply pulls him closer allowing their combined weight to sink into the sofa; giving his shoulder for Combeferre to bury his face in and silently weep; his shoulders heaving with unspoken sobs as fine, dexterous digits reach up to card themselves gently through his hair and a mess of whispered kisses land across the back of his neck.

'It'll be all right Mon Ami, I promise you', the chief murmurs after a moment that could be an hour, could be an eternity for all Combeferre knows or cares. 'And… And even if it isn't,' he pauses here and reaches over to cup Combeferre's face in his palm; forcing the guide to blink salt splashed eyes on glacial blue baths ablaze with fire; ''we will always have each other. And our friends. We must never forget that, we _will _never forget that.' Combeferre finds himself nodding shakily in assent, glad beyond words that his fears, however small and insignificant are understood.

'I will be with you always my friend', he murmurs brokenly, reaching up to blow his nose and Enjolras forces a smile.

'And I you. And Courfeyrac. All of us. You will never be alone in this my friend.'

* * *

Later, much later, when the nights' inky carpet has swept over the streets of Paris bringing with it thick, indigo clouds heavy with rain and barricades towering towards the silver sickle of a moon; Combeferre remembers those words.

He remembers them as he watches Enjolras; proud, beautiful, deadly, defiant Enjolras, his best friend, his comrade at arms, his brother in all but blood now transformed into the very vision of Themis, bringer of justice with a tangled halo of golden curls and blood smeared across his face stand over the prone corpse of Le Cabuc shaking with silent anguish as the cold, hard weight of the still smoking carbine slipped and slid beneath his fingers. Remembers them as his reply cuts itself across the silent city; the air heavy with the anticipated dawn that he half yearns for, half dreads in equal measure.

'_We will share thy fate!' _

The dawn comes and with it a massacre. Halfway through the fighting Combeferre loses sight of Enjolras fighting for all he is worth as he tries to help those wounded in this desperate attempt for freedom.

'_Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century will be happy.' _He only wishes he could share Enjolras' blazing, burning enthusiasm for their new dawn wholeheartedly.

He barely feels the steel of the first bayonet; the sudden shock of pain piercing his windpipe so his knees buckle as he struggles for air; a sudden, desperate scream ripping itself through lips cold and wet with rain. The soldier in his arms, the man barely older than himself who could be saved, if he could be taken to their infirmary in time and treated by Joly for minor grapeshot damage to chest and shoulders, slumps against his chest; falls forward, face down in the blood splattered dirt of Rue St Michel. If he could just…

In desperation he tries to yell for help, but all that comes out is a broken gurgle that is thick with blood; salty, sticky wetness blooming through his mouth, dribbling over his chin. He stumbles back; trying to reach his hands up in a gesture of surrender, trying to make the guardsman see that he meant no harm, that was trying to help, that… The bandage he had forgotten about flutters from his clenched fist at the impact of the second thrust. He staggers again; the man with his plumed helmet pulled down over his eyes so that all he can make out are slits, slipping in and out of focus; his lips struggling to form a single, desperate word that dimly he knows will be ignored.

'_Please.'_

Blood red.

Blinding amber.

Blinding white.

He sees Enjolras standing proud atop a huge mound reaching almost to the sky; a sun arching itself over the shadow shrouded buildings of their beloved, broken Paris. He sees Courfeyrac, sees Jehan, Feuilly, all of them, all of his friends, his sisters shrieking with infectious laughter amongst the rubble, scrambling up towards the top, scraping their knees, their plaits tumbling out of shape as his Mother; his best beloved Mother whom he loves with all his heart watches on; a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

'_Forgive them. Forgive me. Please.'_

Dimly he hears a screaming roar of pain filled, desperate rage as the third bayonet rams itself through his chest and he knows with all the precision of a junior doctor, that his life will soon be over.

_Enjolras. _

_A flutter of golden curls. Wide, cerulean blue eyes swimming with tears as he gripped his hand even as it shook with the fevers' unquenchable heat._

_Ink stained fingers passing him over rough drafts of prospective pamphlets; notes crammed in miniscule handwriting in the margins for him to read before a neat copy was written up. _

_Two heads, one as dark as the autumn leaves, the other a tangled mop of spun sunlight bent over a book in the sun splashed haven that was the library in Enjolras' parents house back in Amiens; propped up on cushions aged ten and eight, drinking up every word of Robespierre, Desmoulins, Danton and Rousseau that blazed with the very fire of liberty. _

_The fires of hope. The fires of progress. The fires of change that burn still deeper within their friends; fires that were nurtured, kindled, fed until they grew steadily greater; reaching higher and higher towards a sun splashed sky of brightest blue reaching up beyond the darkness crowding round his cracked spectacle lenses…_

The darkness that comes with death is almost a relief. Death sweeps over him quickly, quietly; whisking away all sense of life until there is nothing left. Nothing left but the corpse of a thin, bespectacled, dark haired medical student staring at the sky as the sun slowly climbs towards its' zenith; bringing with it new light, new life and new hope for new possibilities.

_We will share thy fate._

**_Fin_**

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**_A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!_**

**_Much love and enjoy x_**


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